


Light Shines Through

by Innin



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood Drinking, F/F, Vampirism, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innin/pseuds/Innin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aredhel is on the road, Thuringwethil is on the prowl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light Shines Through

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



Underneath the spiderwebs was a glint of white, moving eastward swiftly. From her dead tree on a high ridge above the valley, it was easy for Thuringwethil to let herself fall, and in the gathering dark wheel up once, past the moon that hung low and full but pallid in the sky, pockmarked by the Dark Lord's assault and a sign of impending triumph over her former mistress and her starry radiance. Clouds were creeping from the north beyond the jagged ridges of the mountains; the air was cold and thick with an impending storm, not a weather of this world. Thuringwethil's lips drew back into a smile; with the vile starlight of her former mistress obscured, her hunting would be all the easier.

The white glint must have seen her - or seen something, at the very least. It stopped moving.

Thuringwethil let out a long, thin, drawn-out wail in its direction - barely above the hearing limit of most of her prey, quite the opposite of her smaller sisters whose cries went soundless to most - and waited for sound to reflect, to learn what she would dine on, waited for any reaction at all from the curious glint while she winged toward it with forced slowness.

This, too, set her above the smaller bats. They did not have the capacities to delight in scaring their prey or relishing the expectation of warm blood, while she could feel excitement for the hunt course through her hot and sharp and hungry.

The echo returned to her. A horse, a rider – a woman.

It – _she_ – began moving again. Almost, Thuringwethil thought, there was a frantic heartbeat in that echo like mothwings against a glass, a whiff of cold sweat on the wind in her direction, and the faint scent of fresh blood. She laughed in delight - more likely than not, it came from scratches, something minor and negligible incurred perhaps in another encounter of the valley's inhabitants, the spiders and the many-eyed creatures, the shuffling experiments that had crawled from Morgoth's dungeons and found a lightless abode in Nan Dungortheb - but even that served to whet her hunger.

Thuringwethil licked her lips and beat her wings. It had been a long time since a traveller had come her way, and already she had debated returning to Angband to suck dry one of the bitter, scrawny thralls to still the worst of her appetite.

This prey promised to be much sweeter.

Her great, leathery membranes swiftly carried her closer. She could swoop down and seize the Elf, the foolish creature alone in the valley, or she could spook the horse and have her while she'd lie thrown and dazed, and leave her as treat for Ungoliant's spawn, afterwards. After all, they had an agreement to their mutual benefit; Thuringwethil preferred her prey alive and its blood pulsing warm over her lips; she disliked outright killing and often left her victims to the spiders, who delighted in the easier hunt.

She wondered if she would do the same this time – her prey was fair, a veritable morsel that she might enjoy seducing rather than using her for nourishment only. It was not uncommon for Elves to be beautiful, of course, but even so this specimen, bright-eyed under a shock of dark curls, aroused her interest. It was foolish for her to travel alone and without protection, but the proud set of her jaw and the grip of her strong hands on the reins intrigued Thuringwethil, as did the defiant light in her eyes. With her lithe, delicate bones, Thuringwethil might not even prove a match if it came to a fight; she would need to rely on cunning and guile.

And have all the more enjoyment for it. Smiling to herself, Thuringwethil flew overhead once more, saw the Elf duck against the neck of her horse, and swerved sideways into a canyon off the road. In winging away, she heard her prey breathe a sigh of relief, and laughed softly to herself. She would not be relieved for long.

Relying on the strength and speed of her wings, Thuringwethil dove into the canyon; the road would soon come to a bend and dip downward into the gorge, inevitably toward their meeting. A whisper of dead leaves fell in her trail; a first gust of wind of the impending storm followed. Something had displeased her master in Angband, but what that should be she couldn't say – nor cared to find out. Tonight she meant to devote time to her own needs; her master had other messengers aplenty.

The storm, however, would be favourable to her – her glint, her prey would likely seek shelter at least when the rain began and the road became an impassable mire for horse and rider alike, and Thuringwethil could guess where she would come to hide – the canyon was pockmarked with clefts and holes in the cliff face, but few were unoccupied: spiders, and more terrible things that even she disliked, had made their abodes there, but a few had been bespelled with wards for the messengers of Angband that passed this way and might find themselves in need of shelter; those were stocked with water, firewood, provisions and offered safe places to sleep.

Thuringwethil had no doubt that the Elf would find one to continue her journey in daylight and fairer weather, at least as fair as Nan Dungortheb could offer her. And Thuringwethil herself would be waiting. Maybe invisible in shadow until the Elf slept, or sweeter yet, perhaps as a ragged traveller herself who would be overjoyed at meeting another living thing, weeping into her shoulder until her teeth were in reach for a bite.

Or the Elf might fall asleep on her, leaving Thuringwethil to prey on her dreams – Maia she was, and skills she had, though long unused and far estranged from the mistress who had taught and nurtured her. The memory made her hiss under her breath as she folded her wings and crept into the most likely shelter. It was easy to shed her bat-fell and hide it in a nook at the back of the cave. Without it, and with only a murmured glamour to conceal her spidery limbs and the sharp teeth, she would easily pass for an Elf.

She kindled a fire and waited until, at the edge of her hearing, hoofbeats began to clop over the rocks littering the road, joined by the drum of raindrops soon after. Thuringwethil licked her lips. Not long now.

And certain enough – the Elf came, first as a blurry shadow against the curtain of the now pouring rain over the mouth of the cave, then stepping through and leading her reluctant horse by the rein. Thuringwethil could not help but let her eyes roam – she was fair indeed, and where her white-leather armour did not obscure the contours of her body, the rain had plastered her clothes to her skin, revealing the curve of muscles sliding underneath when she flexed her sword-arm, holding her weapon ready to parry any oncoming attack, frowning when her eyes lit on Thuringwethil's figure by the fire.

"Who, or what manner of creature are you?" she demanded. "Speak!"

She was too proud and imperious, Thuringwethil decided, to fall for the charade of a weeping traveler, and too guarded to be overcome by relief herself.

"A marchwarden of Doriath," she answered after a moment's deliberation. "My patrol was scattered near our northern border, and some –" she put a shudder into the careful, conservative enunciation of the forest kingdom – "winged thing attacked me and lost me my weapons before it drove me deeper into Nan Dungortheb. I was lucky to find this shelter before the storm began, or the vile thing came again. Who are _you_ , lady? Someone of such royal bearing surely ought not travel without companions."

The Elf's eyes remained sharp and vigilant. "Feiniel, of Hithlum. If there is only one, then I have seen your winged creature – a large, vile bat I thought it must be." She wiped her hair from her face, tethered her horse to a protruding rock, and rubbed it down with her sodden cloak. Only then, folding her legs under her, she came to sit by the fire with the sword across her knees. "I, too, was separated from my companions."

Good. They were unlikely to be interrupted. Under the scent of the bitter, oily rain, Thuringwethil could almost smell Feiniel's blood, and she had to make a conscious effort to turn her gaze away, to not give in to both indignation and the hunger rising in her.

"Yes. A bat-winged woman, a creature of the enemy if I ever saw one. But you are welcome by my fire until daybreak; surely she will not fly by day."

"Or what passes as day in this forsaken land," Feiniel added. "I thank you for your hospitality, although you must understand that I do not trust in our safety even here. Your fire may draw whatever happens to creep outside, and I have no certainty that you are who you proclaim to be. You have not yet given me your name."

"My apologies." She lowered her head demurely. "I am called Thurinel, and I will forgive you your rudeness if you forgive me mine. I cannot say whether you are who you proclaim to be, either. Such mistrust may well keep us alive through this night."

"Indeed," Feiniel replied. Her fair face remained forbidding until she retrieved a small, leather-wrapped package from the saddle-bags of her horse and returned to the fire. The horse whickered nervously, with its large brown eyes intent on Thuringwethil. Feiniel seemed not to notice, or perhaps her horse was a skittish creature and its behaviour not strange. Reaching out, she offered the package, revealing that it contained a measure of dried meat and a soft white loaf of bread. Thuringwethil hissed and pulled her hand away. Bile rose in her throat.

"I am sorry," she managed to bring out over the revulsion in what she had almost partaken in – dead meat and elven bread. "I am sorry. I am famished; I have not eaten in days, and I fear my stomach will not rise to the challenge. I would rather not insult your hospitality by retching it out again."

Feiniel's eyes narrowed further, she slipped to her feet, and the tip of her sword came to rest warm and heavy against the hollow of Thuringwethil's throat. She froze; if this shape were destroyed, it would take an unfortunate amount of time to rebuild it.

"I do not believe that you are who you proclaim to be. Rather, I think you a servant of the Enemy who knows nothing of the properties of elven bread. Move, and I shall pierce your throat."

Thuringwethil glanced down at the sword at her throat. It had not yet nicked her skin; Feiniel wielded it with grace and care. That she possessed a blade – an expensive commodity, and she was well-trained - at all hinted at many things, not the least of them a high status that she was hoping to conceal, and her over-bright eyes spoke clearly of a life lived partly in the West.

Thuringwethil grinned.

"I knew of you Noldor – the kinslaying lot, the doom that lies on you. I had never thought I would see you raise your blades against more of your own kin. Are you not ashamed or cursed enough, you and your fellow lordlings, without adding me to the toll of dead that litter your path? For I see in your eyes that you are from the West, and by whatever way you crossed the sea, you followed after the slaughter of the Swanhaven!"

A moment's trepidation was all it took for Thuringwethil to slip out from beneath the blade, and she launched herself into the shadowy corner that hid her bat-fell. She would rather go without game if it meant escaping with her hide intact.

Seizing her wings, she darted for the exit, but Feiniel, swift and agile as a cat, blocked her way, her lips drawn back into a feral grimace and her eyes blazing more brightly than the fire.

"Let me go!" Thuringwethil said. "You may slay this shape, but not me. And if you were to take me captive, what would you do; take me with you?"

Their faces were inches apart, the smell of pumping blood irresistible. Heedless of the blade between them, Thuringwethil moved and by instinct slammed her teeth into the Elf's neck. Feiniel made a noise between a cry and a moan, and as she sagged forward the sword clattered from her fingers. The light of her eyes dimmed when they slid shut, and Thuringwethil could feel her lips draw into a smile against Feiniel's neck. She caught the unresisting body and lowered her to the ground, following down still drinking and without ever breaking contact. Her wings spread out around them, shielding her while she drank.

She had won, or nearly so, and the sweet blood on her tongue was all the sweeter for that thought. Feiniel was writhing half-heartedly, pushing a weak fist against Thuringwethil's shoulder that did nothing to hurt her. If all her hunts were as sweet, she would regret abandoning her old life less often, the love unreturned and mocked – _but how could starlight thrive in your secret shadows?_ – and the more of the Star People she'd prey on, the more hurt she would do to her former lady and the pitiful lackey she'd once thought she loved. The only thing she had kept were the wings, but even they were now black and leathern, no longer the erstwhile rich arcs of white and gold.

Feiniel writhed under her, again. "Oh. Oh Elbereth, Elbereth," Her expression was growing dazed and ecstatic; she breathed through parted lips, leaning her head in and driving Thuringwethil's teeth deeper into her skin. "Elbereth."

Three times the hated name.

Feiniel's blood turned thick and sour in Thuringwethil's mouth and pulling away she spat out the glob of it onto the rock floor of the cave, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Feiniel still was dazed, but her chest was heaving and sinking in strong-enough movements – she would recover her consciousness and her wits soon enough. The guarded cave meant, too, that nothing would get at her, neither spiders nor any shuffling thing. Why Thuringwethil did not kill her, or at the very least drag her into the open to leave her as food for the other inhabitants as Nan Dungortheb she could not say – certainly not a grudging respect for her victory. That had been sheer dumb luck, the blasted invocation, not an honest defense at all.

With a last look at the Elf, Thuringwethil swept toward the mouth of the cave and the now-rainless night. The storm had abated and left the darkness clear, but mercifully starless. Thuringwethil leapt into the air and winged north. At least the thralls of Angband, those who had been there longest, would long since have given up invoking the Valar – not even a glint Varda's bright light would pierce into the crevices of the fortress, and they would know that they were utterly forsaken.

And then – then she would feed.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Suz for her beta!


End file.
